Primal Gambit

Chapter 3: The Prep

An entire scene masqueraded by linen shadow. Wicked sounds echoed off invisible walls, transcending the fabric into his ringing ears. Still coming to, the rugged and consistent brushing against the tops of his feet made him feel as though he was being dragged forward. The sensation reminded him of when he was a child, coasting through the air on a swing. Legs dangling, swaying back and forth to feel the cool breeze caress sprouting hairs – yet it was not the same. When the ringing silenced, true auditory cues took over. These sounds were the first inklings to the man that this was not a pleasant place. Moaning nearby gave him the idea that he was not alone in this Hell – far off there was a sparse and yip-like screaming. His heart sank as he realized that his fate was likely similar.

When the sheet was removed, his eyes were invaded by bright light. His hands and feet were locked into the chair in which he sat. A metal strap wrapped around his forehead, keeping him in place. His eyes struggled to adjust to the rapid change in light, but as the lights began to dim in his vision he could make out three figures before him. One was drenched in a white lab-coat that covered a ripped sweater and jeans. The captive figured he must have been one of the many doctors to conduct tests and procedures on the prospects before they were dropped. Squinting gave light to his ID badge: A. Conley.

"Do we have to keep listening to this shit, Doc?" One of the two wardens sighed. They stood by either side of the captive's chair, clad in gray camouflage with bandoliers strung across their chests. Neither one held a weapon in their hands, as it was rare that a prospect could break free from the overused bindings.

"It adds a touch of class to an otherwise dreary job. You don't agree?" The doctor held in his grasp a pair of sharp forceps and a small bone-saw. He clicked the forceps together in rhythm with the eerie classical music that played from a blood-dripped tablet on the table nearby. A woman's exaggerated German drawls added to the abstraction of Arthur's surroundings.

The captive watched as the doctor jotted chicken scratch onto a clipboard, presumably about the man he was about to maim. Just then he spun around, the music back-dropping as his own personal theme. He glared at the man, readjusting his frames before opening his bearded mouth:

"Arthur. P. Shuke. I didn't think I'd have the honor to be working with such praise and esteem. There is quite a bit of hubbub about you 'round here. Especially amongst the practitioners because you see, most of us have to work on addicts who, as you may find in the remission of their chemical latch, oftentimes twitch while we are trying to prep them to be dropped." The doctor's voice raised an octave when he piped the word 'twitch'.

The captive chose to remain silent, looking to the ground to void his senses of anything that would make watery eyes finally burst. His gray hair was already overgrown, draping over his knobby shoulder-blades. His facial scruff was as feral as he was about to become. With a shrug the doctor continued:

"Well. The first procedure we have is closing that mouth of yours. Then we'll just run through some other quick diagnostics, ye' know: logging height, weight, et cetera." He stopped for a moment and stepped closer to the captive.

"So Shuke, is there anything you want to say before you lose the chance? The most common response seems to be 'why is this happening?' or, 'I want to go home.' Sad to say most of the wretches likely have none to go back to." Conley lowered himself to the professor's height, though the captive still refused to maintain eye contact – looking wherever possible to avoid it. There was nothing he could say now, sickened to the pit of his very being by how far the mistreatment of the fellow man had come. He steeled his nerves and met the eyes of the doctor, a stern and disappointed look donning his face.

"Nothing? My, you are a special case. Very well." The doctor returned to the table, tinkering with the most fragile of tools. He spoke without turning his head: "This will most likely be the most pain you've ever felt in your life. Unfortunately for you, the guys upstairs screwed up the last shipment – we have no morphine to give you. Not that I think you deserve it over anyone else or anything." He turned back, needle in hand.

"Ta-daaaa..." He sang chillingly, the bottom of his crimson-soaked lab coat rustling into place.

Shuke took a moment to break from fear and contemplate the amount of honesty in the last thing the doctor had said. Had the observatory really run out of morphine, among other anesthetics, or was it simply a lie told to tamper with his emotions? No matter the meaning beneath the words muttered by the practitioner, it was but a mere lick of the torturous interactions to come. Something twisted within Shuke's guts, as for a moment before returning to the pure fear that awaited him, he felt as though the future instances of torture would be shared with the more malformed inhabitants of Marcotte.

The prints on the mad doctor's fingers were etched in black through the stained blood of having done the same procedure a thousand times over. As he slowly approached, the sound of the music accompanying each dreaded step, he opened his yapping jaw once more:

"Give him the noose, fellas." With a snap of his fingers the wardens moved a tattered leather belt under Shuke's chin. They placed a gnawed-down piece of wood in his mouth – it had been used many times before. After digging through the fur, one warden wrapped the belt up past his cheeks and past his sweating temples until it connected tightly on his scalp. The tautness of the chain that attached the hanging belt to the ceiling made it seem as if it were about to break under the tension. The captive's face was frozen forwards, his eyes squeezed shut – his mouth forced to clench.

Conley hummed as the stitching string behind the needle coiled like a serpent swimming the air.

"This is always the best part. Savor the pain, my pet." The mad doctor placed the cold needle against Shuke's flesh and inhaled the thick moldy air. "And here. We. Go."

The needle broke through the flesh, a drip of blood running the length of the needle, connecting the two men. Shuke suffocated on his own muted scream.

His head snapped forward as best it could, fighting the constraints as he quivered and squirmed. The adrenaline brought him back to consciousness, his eyes weary and unable to adjust to the invasive white light. As he looked down his forearm, he bore witness to a thick liquid entering his veins – bending and twisting under his skin. The nutrients injected haphazardly into his body were frigidly cold, entering him unwarranted, sending chills into his core. A plastic tube burst from his arm, an intravenous flow of nutrients to keep him alive exploding back from too much pressure buildup. Viscous, clear goo sprayed about, splattering his eyes and blinding him. A hint of green fluorescence gave the noxious cocktail a menacing, vile appearance.

All he could hear was a voice behind him:

"Dosage too high, lower it and try again, Doc." One of the wardens sighed.

Shuke tried to scream, but the wires caught his lips and barred him from doing so. Again he fell into unconsciousness, the pain of his reality too overwhelming too bear.